Pensieve
by Aeli Kindara
Summary: Dumbledore once said, "I sometimes find that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind . . . At these times, I use the Pensieve." This is my own pensieve — a little place for excess thoughts and drabbles.
1. Photograph

**A/N: **"Pensieve" is a little place I'm setting up to publish little drabble-esque pieces, or pieces that I don't think are good enough to deserve their own stories. A place to filter off excess thought, like a pensieve. This first drabble is set in late June 1998, when the Dursleys have just received the news that Harry's been killed in a duel with Voldemort. (He did rid the wizarding world of Voldemort, he just died in the process.)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or his world.

* * *

Dudley picks up the forgotten photo lying on the floor, and jumps as he sees the figures in it. Holding it gingerly, he carries it to the bed, dropping it quickly, and staring at it from a safe distance. There's his cousin in the center, flanked by his two freak friends. Dudley recognizes the red-haired one from four years ago, and involuntarily shudders at the memory. The girl on the freak's other side has impossibly bushy hair that would make Dudley snort if he weren't so unnerved by the moving image.

He hears the creak of floorboards, and jumps; his parents would not be happy to find him looking around in Potter's room. Satisfied that the coast is clear, he allows his gaze to drop to the freakish kid himself.

He looks — well — _happy,_ standing there and laughing with his friends. Bizzarely, Dudley realizes that he can't remember ever seeing his cousin look so happy before. But as he continues to stare in horrified fascination at the freak's laughing face, he notices the underlying shadows in his countenance, the weariness and dread lurking behind his eyes. Could he have known of his impending death, even then? Could he have known that in a year's time, he would be killed in a — what had the man's words been? — a "duel with the Dark Lord"? Dudley forces these thoughts from his head. There is no way he could have known; fortune-telling isn't real.

_And photographs don't move._

"Duddykins?"

Dudley grimaces as his mother calls up the stairs for him. He hates her pet names, although he's never said so. Still, it seems like she should have realized that he's nearly eighteen. He doesn't exactly need to be coddled anymore.

"Duddy! Lunch!"

Dudley glances from the door to the photograph. Potter is dead, and he's gone from the Dursleys' lives — _good riddance._

Still, Dudley can't help but slip the photo into his pocket before he leaves the room and shuts the door on his cousin's past.

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Please review? _-Gets down on knees and begs.-_


	2. Telling

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the world of Harry Potter.

**WARNING: SIRIUS/REMUS SLASH — PG**

* * *

"Are we ever going to tell the others?"

"We should. I mean, we're the Marauders. We don't keep secrets from each other."

"The question is, how?"

"Exactly. Sometimes, I think it would be easiest to just intentionally let them walk in on us snogging."

"Sirius!"

"You can't deny it would be easier."

"Well, I suppose, but —"

"Relax, Moony. I know you'd never be okay with that. It was just wistful thinking, is all."

"We're going to have to just come out and tell them sometime soon, though."

"Any particular reason it has to be soon? Just out of curiosity?"

"Well, I know they've both noticed you've stopped hounding girls."

"Poor Moony. Waiting all that time for me to figure out that girls are really nothing compared to you."

"I'm sure it all depends on personal preference."

"Stop being modest, Moony."

"I'm not being modest."

"Yes, you are. You're just trying to use less modest phrasology to be modest."

"How does that work?"

"No clue."

"It's perfectly true that it all depends on personal preference. I mean, take James for example. He certainly wouldn't agree with you that I'm preferable to girls, moreover a certain girl, namely Lily Evans —"

"Shut up, Moony."

"Make me, Padfoot."

"Is that an invitation?" Sirius asks, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"…perhaps."

Sirius grins and launches himself at Remus, knocking him back on the bed. Remus's laughing protests are cut off as Sirius's mouth finds his. Within moments, silliness is gone, and the two are lost in a passionate embrace. Sirius rolls over to stop crushing Remus and pulls him closer.

"What the hell?"

Sirius and Remus scramble apart to see James and Peter standing in the doorway.

"Well," says Remus with a resigned look at Sirius, "I guess we'll have it your way."

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**A/N:** Please review? I keep forgetting to say, I respond to all reviews on my LiveJournal, which can be found by clicking "homepage" on my profile. 


	3. Remember

**Disclaimer:** World of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. You know the drill.

**A/N:** Well, I seem to be in a "writing about Dursleys' reactions to Harry's death" phase. Don't blame me. It just happened. I originally wrote this in past tense, but it was begging to be put in the present tense, and who am I to deny a fic's wishes? So here you have it. Set in St. Mungo's, I guess.

* * *

"Harry?"

"Hm — wha?"

"Your aunt's here to see you."

"Aunt Petunia?"

"Yes. Your uncle and cousin didn't come. Can she come in?"

"I suppose."

Molly turns to the door, holding in tears. It hurts her that Harry, the boy she's come to regard as one of her own, is slowly dying, and there's nothing to be done. She wonders how much longer she can stay together like this — Harry has about half a day left of life.

She opens the door, and the thin, blond woman walks in. Her lips are pursed, and she looks nervous.

"Should I leave the two of you alone, then?"

Petunia looks uncertainly at her nephew. He nods slightly. Molly shuts the door gently, leaving them alone.

Harry's aunt stares at him for a moment, then abruptly sits in the chair next to the bed. A very awkward silence follows.

"So — it's true, then?"

"That I'm dying? Yeah, it's true."

"And — the whole thing about — about that Lord — and a duel —"

"Lord Voldemort, yeah. I was fighting him, and I guess I won, except he got me with a curse that kills the victim, slowly and painfully, over the course of twenty-four hours." He sounds so detached, almost mechanical. There is weariness in his eyes.

"It — hurts, then."

"Like hell." The answer is pure and simple, so frank that it takes Petunia's breath away.

"I'm sorry." It isn't what she meant to say. She isn't sure she meant to say anything, really, and certainly not that. And yet, it is so sincere, so truthful, and she knows it.

"For what?"

". . . everything."

"I believe you."

Another unexpected answer. It makes sense, of course, but it's just so straightforward that it somehow _doesn't._ Life is all about dancing around the topic at hand, being diplomatic.

Petunia supposes that when life is nearly over you don't care about that so much.

"Aunt Petunia?" the boy says suddenly. There is a startling urgency in his tone.

"Yes?"

"Will you remember us? I mean, I know the entire wizarding world will remember me and mourn for me and write about me in history books, and all because of one stupid prophecy, but will you remember me, me and my mother? Will you remember us?"

To Petunia's surprise, there are tears in her eyes, and she has difficulty forcing out the word in a choked whisper.

"Yes."

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Please review? _-Puppy eyes-_


	4. Ridiculous

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Harry Potter, why would I be getting down on my knees and begging for people to review?

* * *

She didn't mean to kill him; at least, she doesn't think she did. She just — snapped, she supposes, and then her wand was out, mouth forming the words, and he slumped to the floor in a blaze of green light. And that was how they found her, hours later — still standing over him, shaking, with a death grip on her wand. Eleven and a half inches, alder, unicorn hair. The wand she'd had for thirty-five years. She doesn't have it anymore — they've taken it. She'll most likely never see it again.

She tries to remember why she did it. It was something he said, she recalls. Something . . . he called her ridiculous, she remembers now. "You're so ridiculous, mother." That's what he said. Ridiculous.

Lucius always used to call her ridiculous, shaking his head at her like a little girl. He's gone now — locked up in Azkaban, like so many others. Like she will be soon.

She's not sure why she hated Lucius so much. Perhaps it was the way he always treated her as an inferior — his trophy wife, simply a pretty woman to bear his child and smile by his side at all the formal functions. An arranged marriage, of course. She remembers complaining to her mother that she disliked Lucius, and being slapped and told in an angry voice that _liking_ had nothing to do with it.

_Well, Mother,_ she thinks wryly, _it looks like liking might have mattered after all._ Because of course, none of this would have happened if she'd _liked_ Lucius. Because if she'd _liked_ Lucius, she wouldn't have minded when Draco acted like him — when he imitated his patronising drawl. If she'd _liked_ Lucius, her only child would be alive — the child she'd pampered and protected all those years. Because he was _her,_ he was the one person in the world she could find herself within. He was _her_ son.

He wasn't supposed to end up like Lucius.

He wasn't supposed to end up dead.

* * *

**A/N:** Yay, another Chem Class HP-Writing Challenge! (If you don't know what I'm talking about, a friend and I have decided to spend the most boring class in the school challenging each other to HP write-offs.) I liked how this one turned out. It was really interesting, because I picked the challenge this time — something about Narcissa murdering Draco. She can contemplate it, or do it, or be arrested for it without actually doing it. My partner in this endeavor wrote abusive!Narcissa, and it was amazing how much contrast there was between our pieces. We had a third participant this time, but I haven't read hers yet . . . Anyway. Please review. As stated in disclaimer. I reply to all reviews on my LiveJournal ("homepage" on the profile). 


	5. Splinters

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter and his world belong to JKR, I am making no profit, don't sue.

* * *

He looks down at Wormtail's lifeless form, entire body shaking. _I killed Wormtail,_ he thinks, over and over. He can't get it out of his head; the words pound relentlessly against his skull. _I killed Wormtail. I killed Wormtail._

The duel was short but furious, an outlet for years of pent-up rage. Remus is not one to anger easily, but the man at his feet has ripped apart and torn from him everything he ever loved . . .

Bizarrely, Remus's mind reverts to the meticulous nitpicking his always used to make fun of at school. Peter hasn't torn _everything_ from him. There's still Harry, and of course there's still Hogwarts; there'll always be Hogwarts . . . and his humanity, that he lost before he even knew Peter . . . Harry, Hogwarts, humanity — H's. A hysterical sob rises in his throat. He's just killed the last of his best friends, and all he can think of his alliteration.

He wonders why he feels the need to think at all. Does it matter, anymore? Does anything matter?

A duel, he's dueled with his best friend and won. Remus is no dueler — he's always hated the wildness of it, the rush of flying spells — the lack of control. James and Sirius were the duelers, really — they had the instincts for it. Remus has always had to _think_ about a spell before firing it off. Well, not always. Not today. Today, he didn't think at all, didn't even use spells — he simply let his anger release itself through his wand. And now Peter is dead.

"Remus?" A hand tentatively touches his elbow.

"It's over," he says, without turning. "It's all over now."

* * *

**A/N:** Today's challenge: write a duel. It came into my head to have Remus kill someone . . . originally Bellatrix, but then I decided on Peter. Yeah. Anyway, I'd like it very very much if you would review. And I will respond to your review on my LiveJournal ("homepage" link on my profile). 


	6. Weak

**Disclaimer:** Don't own.

**A/N:** I normally try to save this for the end, but I think I need to do some explaining first — this will seem very anti-Marauders and a bit anti-Remus but not so much. The idea was to pick your favorite character and portray them in a bad light. I picked Remus, of course, and the bad light about him here is in not having faith in his friendship. I don't believe the dynamics of the Marauders were actually like this at all.

* * *

He stares moodily at the unopened bottle of Ogden's Old. It's not like he'll be drinking it. Alcohol wreaks havoc on a werewolf's metabolism; he found _that_ out in fifth year, when he tried some along with the other three. His three friends.

That's just the thing — his friends. They're the best thing that's ever happened to him, but . . . it's just that he sometimes thinks he cares too much about his friendship with them; he'll do anything to keep it. He's _weak,_ he thinks, slamming his fist into his thigh. _Weak._

He almost wonders if they're only friends with him because he helps them out of trouble and sometimes lets them copy his homework when they've forgotten. Because he always makes his conscience shut up when they're tormenting Snape. Because it's nice to have a prefect on their side.

_Of course not, Remus,_ he tells himself. _They became _Animagi_ for you, for Christ's sake._

_But did they really do that for me? _a traitorous voice whispers darkly. _Would they have done it if not for the thrill?_

He hates these thoughts, hates the loss of faith in his friends. He _hates_ it! But it just seems, sometimes . . .

He wonders bitterly how far he would go for that friendship. _I'd probably go against everything I ever thought was right, if they told me to. I'd probably do anything._ Because the truth is, he doesn't care if their friendship is simply for convenience — even a second-rate friendship is better than none.

And if they told him to down the entire bloody bottle of Ogden's Old, he'd most likely do that, too.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah. Please review, I'll love you forever. I also answer reviews on my LiveJournal ("homepage" link on my profile). 


	7. Death Wish

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the world of Harry Potter.

* * *

She stops at the newly appeared door and pauses for a moment before reaching out and turning the handle. It swings soundlessly open, invitingly ajar.

She's been here before, many times, for many different reasons — many different requirements. But this time is unique. This time, the door reveals only darkness, a pitch black that no light can penetrate. She steps inside.

Something washes over her: relief, perhaps, or fear. A slight smile touching her lips, she closes the door and is engulfed in darkness.

She doesn't seem to be standing on anything; she is weightless, floating in the darkness. She's not sure if her eyes are open, but it's not as if it matters. Here, she needs no awareness — never again will she need to be aware.

And so she floats there, enveloped in darkened bliss, and doesn't even feel it when her life slips away.

* * *

**A/N:** Gneh. The challenge was to write an unusual use for the Room of Requirement. I couldn't think of anything funny, so instead I wrote it for someone with a death wish. You pick the character; if it really seems like anyone to you, tell me because I'm curious. And please review even if it doesn't seem like anyone in particular; reviews make me very happy. I also respond to them on my LiveJournal ("homepage" on my profile). 


	8. Cold November Wind

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

He stares out of the window, a cold smile touching his lips. The grounds are deserted — not even the most foolish Gryffindors venture out on a day like today. A cold wind buffets him as he steps outside, causing his black cloak to billow out behind him as he walks down toward the lake.

The wind whips up now-brown leaves, forming a tiny maelstrom around him. On an impulse, he reaches up and snatches one from the air. It crackles satisfyingly as he crushes it in his hand, then lets the pieces fall to the ground.

It is bitingly cold, what with the constant wind. Down at the lake, a thin sheet of ice can be seen along the water's edge, although the center is still open and unfrozen. Its steely surface is made choppy by the relentless gusts.

He must look impressive, standing tall here on a boulder above the lake, wind whipping his cloak and hair out behind him. It thrums in his ears and through his blood, blocking out the fiery ache that still remains from this morning's Cruciatus.

He turns his gaze to the sky, a nondescript gray. Leaves are being whipped about high above him, carried away in a swirling cloud. He knows they will return to earth eventually, somewhere. He likes to think, though — it's not that he's given to fantasies, he's certainly not _given to fantasies_ — but he does like to think that those old brown leaves are swept into that mass of gray and vanish, never to be seen again.

It's not that he believes in heaven. He's not sure if he's ever believed in heaven. It's just that sometimes, he wishes for nothing more than to be an old, dried-up leaf, blowing away in the cold November wind.

* * *

**A/N:** The challenge for this one was "Snape's favorite time of year." One of my friends wrote an insane piece about Snape dancing around his office singing Christmas carols . . . whatever fits your image of Snape, I suppose. . . . Anyway. I'm sorry for my absence; it is explained on my LiveJournal. Please review; I cannot impress upon you enough how much I love reviews. Except please don't just say "Very Interesting" or "that was interesting . . ." because it leaves me in doubt as to whether you mean you found it intellectually stimulating or very strange. Just be honest. Oh, and don't think you have to be all stuffy about it. I promise you, I'm not some person at a high level of society that you need to suck up to. Anyway. Review responses can be found on my LiveJournal ("homepage" link on my profile), usually within a week, sometimes much later, in which case I apologise profusely. Either way — please review. 


	9. Heroes

**Disclaimer:** Don't own. It's all JKR's, except the wording.

* * *

"They died like heroes."

Molly suppresses a sob. Does this hard-faced Auror actually think she cares how they died? They're gone, and that's all that matters. Her baby brothers, the carefree twins, are gone forever.

"They died like heroes."

What's the use of heroes, if all they do is die? All those good, brave, strong people, fighting for all that is right — fighting and dying. The dark keeps on coming, and the heroes keep on dying.

But why did _her_ brothers have to be the heroes? Why did _her_ brothers have to die?

"They died like heroes."

In the back of her head, a voice is whispering words she won't listen to, can't listen to. It's trying to remind her of something Gideon said once — "It's dangerous times we're living in now, Mol, but there ain't nothing we can do about it except be dangerous right back at them. So it's full throttle ahead and all or nothing, hm? If we're gonna go out, we might as well go out with a bang." She refuses to remember Gideon's words, because it'll only hurt more.

"They died like heroes."

It's how they wanted to go, whispers the treacherous voice in the back of her head. They went out with a bang, like they wanted.

That's right, a bang, she replies dully. The bang as my heart hit the floor and shattered.

"They died like heroes."

She looks down at her swollen belly. Twins, the Healers said. Two beautiful little boys. She and Arthur have already chosen their names — Fred and George, like Fabian and Gideon.

They'll be just like you, she told the twins. And they'll try to pretend they're each other and confuse me, just like you do. They'll be just like you.

Now, Molly gazes at her belly, and wishes with all her heart that they won't be like Fabian and Gideon. She's not sure how much more of this she can stand.

Please God, she prays, don't make them heroes.

* * *

**A/N:** I've had this in my head for days, and I like the way it turned out. Yeah. Please review; it makes me a very happy person. And I will do my best to reply to all reviews on my LiveJournal (click "homepage" on my profile). 


	10. Dream Diary

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. Some conversation taken directly from the beginning of the chapter "Dumbledore's Army" in OotP.

This one's for Sammy, who's been here all along.

"Have a look at my dream diary, Parvati," Lavender says excitedly. I nod absentmindedly, slipping the diary under my desk to hide it, in the unlikely event that Flitwick will notice if one girl isn't concentrating completely on silencing her raven.

"_Silencio!"_

The raven caws loudly. I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Beneath my desk, I flip open Lavender's dream diary and scan its pages without reading them.

I've been — distracted, lately. I think it started at the Hog's Head this weekend, listening to them talk about what Harry Potter's done. Sort of got me thinking — him and his two friends, they've just — well, they've experienced so much more than the rest of us. They've looked in the face of death, as cliché as it may sound. I mean, I saw Diggory's body as well as the next person, but he was actually there and, from what I've heard, nearly died himself. I mean, that's something I can't even start to imagine. And at the Hog's Head when they were talking about the stuff he's done — I hadn't even known about half of it. But the stuff the three of them think about — him, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley — like, I don't know, the tides of good and evil and that sort of thing. Makes me feel kind of frivolous. I mean, sure, I'm doing some stuff — there's that whole secret Defense society and everything — but that's different. It's not — well — real.

I twist in my seat to look at the trio. They've got their heads together in that trademark huddle. Hermione's speaking. I can just barely hear her over the noise of Charms class.

"It was a very, very close call last night," she's saying. "I just wonder if Umbridge knows how close it was." She silences her frog. "If she'd caught Snuffles . . ."

Something about Umbridge nearly catching something named Snuffles. Tides of good and evil, all right.

"He'd probably be back in Azkaban this morning," Harry says.

Told you. Tides of good and evil.

I turn back to Lavender's dream diary.

**A/N:** See, Sammy? I finally wrote it. Although it ended up being Parvati's POV. Took me about two months, but I got around to it. To everyone who might read this: please review it. I love reviews; they make me really happy.


	11. Vigil

**Disclaimer:** The world of Harry Potter (although I suppose this doesn't strictly have to be in the Potterverse) belongs to JKR.

* * *

He sits in the bay window and watches the cold sunrise, his posture erect as it was when he took a seat there hours ago. He's been there all night, hardly moving a muscle, but his face shows no signs of exhaustion. His countenance is pale but composed.

It's July, and the day promises to be scorchingly hot. The birds have already been up an hour, delivering a hearty dawn chorus. It's already a perfect summer day.

It doesn't matter. The sunrise is still cold.

Everything is cold, today.

He turns his head to look at you. "It ends today."

"I know." You don't want to say it. You want to tell him, _No, don't go, you can escape, I can help you get far away from this — it isn't destiny, there's no such thing as destiny —_

But you know it doesn't matter. You know that he has chosen this to be his destiny, and so it is. You know that he wouldn't turn back now, even if he could.

"I die today."

Your heart breaks for the thousandth time. "I know."

He gets to his feet, stretching briefly to work the stiffness from his limbs, just like any other morning. Then he walks to the door.

You can't let him go like this, without so much as a goodbye. You surge to your feet, reaching out to grab his shoulder. He turns to look at you.

The words tumble out of your mouth before you've registered what they are. "I love you."

He gives you a sad smile, one hand on the doorknob.

"I know."

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed. (I wrote this in the car, at night, by the light of street lights.) Out of curiosity, who do you think the characters are? It was written to be ambiguous if at all possible. I'm interested to see what people come up with. As always, please review — it means the world to me. 


	12. Ruin

**A/N:** This is a mini-sequel to "Confidant," originally part of it, but I decided it worked better as a drabble. Read "Confidant" first.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the world of Harry Potter.

* * *

Remus Lupin stood alone on the ridge, looking down on the wreckage of what used to be his best friends' home.

The Potters were dead now. So was Peter. And Sirius . . . worse than dead. Sirius was a traitor. Sirius was in Azkaban.

His entire life destroyed in one fell swoop.

And then there was Regulus.

Regulus, who had given his life so his brother could live — live to betray his friends. Regulus, who had sacrificed himself to make the Dark Lord mortal — but Voldemort wasn't mortal. He hadn't died, or so Dumbledore said. He still existed — as a spirit, yes, but he existed.

Regulus, who had tried so hard, only to fail at everything he did.

Remus dug in his pocket and pulled out his wand. Beech and phoenix feather, ten-and-a-half inches. He eyed it for a moment, holding it across the palms of his hands.

Then he tossed it gently into the ruins.

Wrapping his newly transfigured Muggle coat tightly around him and ducking his face against the cold November wind, Remus Lupin walked away.


	13. Filthy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, or anyone or anything else mentioned in this story.

**Warning:** This drabble contains Harry/Draco SLASH. I'd put it at only a PG level, but it involves a boy kissing a boy. If you don't like that, hit the back button now.

* * *

Draco huddles in the corner of the small, dingy cell, waiting for the end to come. He feels just like the floor and walls: filthy, inside and out.

He's been caught, and there's no going back now. The Dark Lord has found him out. It was his father, newly escaped from Azkaban, who discovered the papers hidden securely in the depths of his chest back at Malfoy Manor. Only his father could have found them. Only his father could have betrayed him.

Well, Lucius needs to get back in the Dark Lord's good graces, after all. And if his son is the price, he'll pay it.

It was over a year ago that Draco found his way to the Weasleys' house — it really isn't such a hovel, after all — and that Harry Potter opened the door, light pouring out around him from the warm kitchen and making his silhouette stand out in stark contrast. I need your help, Draco said. He didn't even care that this was Potter, his lifelong nemesis. You're Dumbledore's. I need your help.

Dumbledore's dead, Potter said, and made to close the door.

No! Wait! Draco was desperate, ready to do anything. I'll help you. I'll give you information. Anything. Just — I need your help. (There was no way he was saying this — he, Draco Malfoy — )

Potter stared for a moment. Finally, he said, All right, and let Draco in.

Draco can't remember how they convinced him to return to the Dark Lord as a spy. He remembers so little of that evening, when he inadvertantly walked in on a meeting of the remainder of the Order of the Phoenix. He does remember Potter's eyes on him, throughout the interrogation — green, intense, never wavering in their gaze.

He came back. He still doesn't know why, but he came back, for the likes of them. He worked for them in secret, spying and passing information. His diguise was flawless, everything hidden in the secret drawer of his old trunk, the one his father gave to him, a memento from his dead grandfather. Occasionally, he visited the Order in person. It's all a haze now, blurred faces and questions with one pair of constant green eyes standing out of it all.

His very last visit is the only one that stands out in his memory, stands out through the pain of hours of torture. As he was making his way down the corridor to the front door, glancing back over his shoulder, Potter stepped out into the hallway, and they bumped straight into each other. They paused for a moment, stared, eye to eye, and then Draco leaned forward without even thinking about it and kissed Harry roughly on the lips.

That was all. One short kiss, like a question hanging in the air, and Draco half-ran out the door into the windy night, and was gone in a spinning half-turn that made him nearly lose his balance when he appeared back at the Manor.

Only two days ago. Two hellish days ago. And now here he is, huddled in the corner of the dingy cell as Voldemort raises his wand, feeling filthy both inside and out.

* * *

**A/N:** Harry/Draco has become one of my latest obsessions; the ship over on FictionAlley is really quite wonderful, and I wrote this from one of their writing prompts. So I'm sorry if it's not the sort of thing you like from me — what can I say? I don't even know if I even still have any faithful reviewers, seeing as I've been disappeared so long, but if anyone does read this, I hope you enjoyed, and please review. 


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